Pops
by buttercups3
Summary: Booth is still reeling from having to return his Pops to the retirement home post Season 5's "Foot in the Foreclosure." Sweets checks up on his pal at the diner and offers some words of comfort and comic relief.


_Note: This story also exists on my LiveJournal, so if you read over there, sorry this isn't new! Spoilers are for Season 5's "Foot in the Foreclosure." As a gentle recap Booth's grandfather causes problems at his retirement home, comes to live with Booth for a while, and nearly burns Booth's house down while making dinner. Sweets babysits Pops for a bit after the fire by playing dominoes with him. Eventually, Pops tells Booth it's time to go back to the retirement home, and Booth is spared having to force him to return for his own safety. This scene takes place after the episode._

_A Booth/Sweets friendship fic._

**Pops**

Sweets was sitting at a table in the diner engrossed in the Post. He had a half-eaten plate of romaine sitting in front of him carelessly pushed to the side. Carrots were strewn about like little missiles on and off the plate. A corner of the front page of the newspaper was soaked in olive oil.

"Sweets?" Booth asked, surveying the damage.

Sweets looked up to see his favorite FBI agent standing at the head of his table. He immediately grinned, then thinking he appeared too eager, curved his lips into a more modest smile of greeting. Booth lifted the back of his suit coat and sat down heavily. Sweets looked for Dr. Brennan, Booth's usual diner companion, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Agent Booth," Sweets greeted him. Lance worked to entirely transition his mental energy from the sorry state of the American economy (about which he had been reading) to his friend before him. Booth appeared his usual congenial self, but Sweets detected uneasiness beneath the surface. It was always a delicate matter getting Booth to talk about his feelings, so Sweets took the oblique approach.

"How is your grandfather readjusting to the nursing home?"

"Don't call it that, ok Sweets? He's fine. I just visited him yesterday. Two days back and he's already stirring up trouble with the orderlies. You know what they call sex over there? Crocheting. You've got to hand it to Pops for still managing to be a hit with the ladies."

Lance smiled. "Crocheting? Quite the euphemism. Actually, ugh, now I'm trying to get a mental image of it out of my mind." Sweets tried to shake off the picture forming in his head of Pops and some random women in her golden years going at it like rabbits.

Lance transitioned. "It must be hard on you, seeing him back there."

Booth interjected, "Don't start, Sweets."

"No, I mean, it's natural to feel bad about having to commit your grandfather not once but twice to a nursing home because you know you can't take care of him. If you need to talk, I--"

"Sweets! Take a hint! I do not want to talk! I did not _commit_ him. He went back because he wanted to."

Lance realized that this was going to take some extraordinary action on his part. He swallowed and decided to go where he never went with patients—to his own personal experiences.

"My parents died…a couple of years back."

"Yeah, Gordon Gordon told Bones and me," Booth said the corners of his mouth turning down.

Sweets started a little. He felt a pang of anger toward Gordon for not only correctly guessing this fact about his past but then sharing it with his colleagues. He made an effort to put aside the thought and focus on the matter at hand.

"My parents were elderly—probably about your grandfather's age. Maybe a bit younger. My dad had prostate cancer and my mom breast cancer."

Booth looked shocked and saddened.

"Yeah, I know. Apparently we're all going down from some kind of hideous cancer at some point. It's…well, they were both quite ill at the end of things. My mom in chemo. My dad—he lost control of his bodily functions. I mean, I spent the last few months of his life helping to change his diapers." Lance gazed out the window morosely. The familiar feelings of grief, misery, and desperately missing his parents swept over him. "I would have done anything for them. They were such loving, wonderful people."

Booth nodded but couldn't meet Sweets' eyes.

"I was finishing grad school, you know. Writing my dissertation. I spent part of the last year of their lives in London on a fellowship. God, I wish I hadn't wasted that time with them. I regret it, and yet…" I finished my degree, Lance thought. That must be worth something.

"I'm sure you did what you could, Sweets," Booth said kindly.

"Booth, you did the right thing accepting that it was time for your Pops to go back to the home. He deserves the constant and careful attention of professionals. He also deserves to have you visit him, which you do religiously. You're doing the right thing. I admire you for taking him in for the time you did."

"Thanks again for watching him after the fire, Sweets," Booth said, clearly moved.

"It was no problem. No problem at all. I had to hold back on my dominoes skills of course. Didn't want to kick him when he was already down."

Booth snorted. "Right."

"I got used to the insults as well—squirt, smartass." Sweets grinned broadly.

"You _are_ a smartass, Smartass," Booth said.

Sweets looked carefully at Booth. "You alright?"

"Yep. Yeah. I don't like to think that our days together are numbered, you know, me and Pops."

"Yeah, I know. I guess, we all just have to make the best of the time we're given with those we love. Sounds to me like you're doing your part."

Booth leaned back and put his heads behind his head. "You know, Pops really liked Bones."

Sweets grinned slyly at Booth. "'Course he did."

Booth picking up on Sweets' insinuation frowned at the boy, tossed a napkin at his smirking mug, and got up from the table.

He swaggered toward the door, calling, "See you, Squirt."

Sweets continued smiling.


End file.
